


Body Heat

by Airy (hn209486)



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-22
Updated: 2015-02-22
Packaged: 2018-03-14 16:10:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,036
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3417050
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hn209486/pseuds/Airy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dorian knows just the way to handle a winter storm, as loath as the inquisitor is to admit it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Body Heat

**Author's Note:**

> Edit: Fixed some spelling errors and the title. This is what I get for writing late at night.

He hated the winter. He hated the way the wind ran through the tent like nothing, and the way the snow soaked into his boots, leaving his toes pained if not numb.  He had learned to especially hate the snow after the avalanche at Haven, when the wave of snow had nearly taken his life. Inquisitor Levellan, in fact, feared snow to an extent, having been so sure that he would lose his life in the white hell that day.  
  
Right now, Lúthian was concentrating on the little inkling of discomfort when in a heavy snowstorm. He was hidden away in his tent, far from the chatter of other companions, and wrapped in his blanket. Despite this, his teeth chattered, entire body was shaking with shivers, and he was more than sure that he would not manage to sleep a lick this night.  
  
The storm had hit with a sudden ferocity that left the world a mess of white, sprinkling freezing water across their upturned faces. It had taken five men at a time to pin down the tents, and even then Lúthian would not have been surprised if it collapsed in on top of him in the night. Squeezing his eyes shut, he took a deep breath, his lungs burning with the chill in the air. They hadn’t managed to get a fire started, and the storm only sounded like it was getting worse outside. As much as he was trying to ignore it—should have been ignoring it—Lúthian couldn’t help feeling nervous at the idea of this storm burying them in.  
  
So nervous he was, in fact, that when the tent flap swung open he flinched. Instead of some snow demon, however, Dorian stepped through the opening, moustache frozen on his face and hair littered with ice and snow.  
  
The man didn’t look nearly as cold as Lúthian felt, with his fur coat tucked carefully around his face, but a series of creative swears in some language the elf didn’t know still muttered past Dorian’s mouth as he turned to tie the flap closed behind it. After that, he carefully managed to light one of the lamps in the tent, illuminating both their faces. It was only then that his lover looked down at Lúthian, eyebrows turning down with his frown.  
  
“Your lips are blue, amatus.”  
  
“No shit—“ Chattering teeth made it hard to say anything, and the smaller man tugged the blanket tighter around his shoulders.  
  
Dorian still managed a sly grin, dark eyes squinting at the inquisitor in a coy manner, “What’s _this?_ Our beloved herald so easily quashed by a bit of snow?”  
  
Lúthian could only scowl at the Tevinter, but a gust of wind left him cowering into the thin blanket, the sound of ice pellets raining over the tent making him close his eyes briefly. He could almost, _almost_ , imagine he was back in Skyhold right now— 

“Ah—you aren’t just cold. You’re a _fraid_. Can’t have Cassandra catch you like this.” Dorian’s strong hands started to pull the blanket away from Lúthian’s body, who clutched it tightly to his chest with an accusing glare. 

“You daft bugger, you’ll freeze me out!”

“I would suggest stripping down to something a little less restricting—“  
  
“Right _now,_ Dorian _?_ _Seriously?_ ”  
  
The taller man laughed, crouching down in the tent. The light of the small flame flickered and spat, making shadows dance across the illuminated inside of the tent. Strong fingers gripped Lúthian’s chin, and the Tevinter leaned in and pressed his lips against the inquisitors. Warm against his own, Lúthian found himself leaning into the kiss despite his previous protest. Dorian pulled back with a laugh.  
  
“Lips as cold as death itself! I can’t have that, not with my amatus. Trust me and undress, Lúthian. I promise you, I have no unrespectable intentions—not tonight, at least. I have no promises about _later_ , “ Lúthian squinted at the Tevinter warily, who simply winked at him, causing the bottom of the inquisitors stomach to get that odd feeling he had once thought was slightly uncomfortable. 

“You are absolutely ridiculous, Dorian,” but he began to undo the buttons of his chilled sleeping wear, pulling the shirt off over his head and shimmying out of his bottoms as fast as he could. He found himself pausing in the action, watching with half-lidded eyes as his lover undressed, the firelight casting dancing light that accented his dark skin and sculpted form. It often caught Lúthian by surprise just how… beautiful Dorian was—although he was loath to admit it. The Tevinter’s head was already big enough.  
  
Down to his underclothing, Dorian grabbed his own blanket from the other side of the tent, carefully moving the lamp over to a place it was less likely to get knocked over. He approached Lúthian, pulling black the blanket that the inquisitor so desperately clung too, and slid in beside him. At first, Lúthian tried to protest (“Your toes are _freezing!_ ”) but Dorian quickly silenced him with a kiss and tugged the small man up against his chest. Lúthian soon enough found himself engulfed in his lovers arms, with not one but two blankets wrapped around their forms and their legs tangled together.  
  
“We’re likely to die of hyperthermia—“  
  
“Do you know _anything_ about body heat, amatus? Besides, it's hypothermia, not hyperthermia. Best to try for the latter in that damned desert you're so fond of.” Lúthian couldn’t argue that one, simply blowing air into Dorian’s chest with a breathy laugh. His heart rate was slowing, and he found himself much less fearful of the wind around them when Dorian was so close at hand. And, just as Dorian must have known, he was starting to warm up already, their shared body heat doing wonders for warming the inside of the blankets.  
  
“Now, tell me about those ridiculous elven gods you insist on sending sacrifices or whatever too—“  
  
“They aren’t _sacrifices_. It’s offerings—“  
  
“Maybe they’d be happier with sacrifices—“  
  
Lúthian sighed angrily, but Dorian gripped his chin and tipped his head up to steal a kiss, “I am serious, amatus. Tell me about this… Mythal that’s going to steal you away from me. I think I’ve earned that, hm?”  
  
“…Okay.”


End file.
